Hungry
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: A sort of future fic for Brendan and Ste. Will have about 3 or 4 parts.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello! So, I'm not sure what this is. Been writing it really slowly. It'll probably have 3 or 4 parts._

**Hungry**

I'm thinking about how I get you from down here to up there. It's not far, a couple of flights, but it feels … impassable. I'm looking over at you, my head on one side, as you look over that menu. So formal now, aren't ye? Your shoulders look broader in that suit you got from god knows where, flasher that you used to be. Almost classy, that tie round your neck. So grown up. So changed. But you insisted. Let's make it official, you said. I was happy to roll with it.

It was always my schtick, the suit, though not the tie. I hate the thought of being on a leash, for all you make it look pretty good. But I don't bother, right now. The jacket is discarded, hung up. I needed to breathe. So I look at you, and that's what I do. Breathe. And try to remember what it feels like to be hungry.

You're making your choice. There's a sort of frown on your face, serious, lines across your brow that weren't always there, as if you want to be sure that you're doing the right thing. You look up at me from under your brows, and meet my gaze. Your mouth is … perfect, like it always was. Even with those scars above your upper lip, the ones I like to run my thumb over as your eyes close in anticipation, still perfect. Your bottom lip juts out with your concentration. Maybe with suspicion, like you're not sure what you're setting yourself up for, sitting here with me. Very wise. Then your eyes drop again, hidden behind those mile-long lashes that are like no one else's. And I should know. I've known quite a few.

Yeah, I've taken my fair share of options from the menu. I never wanted any of them, not really. I never spent more than a few seconds choosing. And funny how when you know you can have anything off the menu, easy, you sometimes lose your appetite for any of it. So why the fuck? Because I could. It was a kind of revenge, I guess. But I can tell you something now; contrary to popular opinion, revenge doesn't taste good, hot or stone cold. It tastes of ashes. Of nothing. Of something dead. I took my fill of it. But funny how now, even after all this time, the only taste I can remember is yours. Sharp and sweet and salty, like a cocktail mixed by the best barman in the world, and sucked up fast through a straw, a direct hit, playing havoc with your brain.

With you, I was always hungry. I only had to look at you to feel my mouth water, my tastebuds sharpen. There was just something about you. Your mouth was so ripe, it was a crime not to steal it. You were all planes and smooth curves, delectable. Bitable. Your flesh burned and glowed when I looked at you, and I always knew when you were ready. Your eyes smoked. Your skin flushed red. You couldn't wait for me to peel off your clothes. Your skin, your muscles, took the impression of my fingers when I kneaded your flesh like dough. I never wanted to bruise you, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. Your belly button, when I got there, was just begging to be licked. Your backside was a peach. A hand under each cheek was all I needed to get my juices flowing. You were always good enough to eat. But what gave you your own special flavour, like a sharp, deep sauce, was how much you wanted it. Under my hands, my lips, my body, you purred like a cat that had got the cream. I remember your teeth against my tongue. Your laugh, right into my mouth, bubbling in the back of your throat. The look in your eyes, satisfied, filled by me.

I don't know when it all went so sour. When I pushed that prison crap round my plate, maybe, thinking I'd been buried alive, hating the people who left me there, making deals with the devil to get me out. And when I hurt you, yeah, because it was the only way of making myself really bleed, to get the pain out. I've had plenty of time to think about that. It sits in a place in my head. Always will. And yet I know I still want you. You have every reason to hate me. It would be insane for you to come back to me now. But you're here, aren't you.

It's been a while. This is how it is, now. You're over there, I'm over here. The table feels a metre wide. There's a fucking fortress of knives and forks and glass and salt and pepper and vinegar between you and me. I look at you and think about how many times I've sat opposite you like this, trying to read you, wondering if you can read me, knowing I don't make easy reading. How many times we've sat close but missed by a mile, nowhere near. Like that time you made me go with you to that bar, and I felt like my skin was on fire, like demons were dancing over every pore. You looked in your element, like someone learning to swim and loving it. You wanted a proper relationship, you said, leaning towards me. Where we talked, shared stuff. I touched your hand on the table and legged it out of there so fast you didn't even know I'd gone until I was half way to the ferry. And the same again, after Eileen came back. Looking at you, sat in the sunshine, smiling, talking about this stupid holiday that I wanted to take more than anything, you and me, the kids. That word again, relationship, between. And all I could see was the remains of a burger on the table, discarded chips, and my stomach contracted into a ball so tight I thought I'd never eat again. I'm not sure I've really felt hungry since then, for all I've had food put in front of me, and I've swallowed, gorging myself sometimes, tasting nothing.

Anyway, here we are again. Making our choices. And it's a long way from me to you, and from here to there, upstairs, where there's a massive bed, with those sheets hotels use, crisp, and a bottle of champagne on ice, and two glasses, and fruit, strawberries because you told me once that you liked them. Cheesy as hell, but if this comes off, it'll be worth a celebration. Worth making it special. I will push you down onto that pillowy bed, and unwrap you, stroke you, kiss you, tongue you, lift you, part you, and fuck you, all with a buzz that's from more than champagne in my veins, losing myself between your cheeks, all that darkness I carry round with me, while you moan it all out, spread for me, legs wrapped round, a heel pressed between my buttocks, locking us together while you reach for yourself and touch and pull until you're shining with sweat, and your mouth opens and slackens and your belly slicks with seed, and I have never, never wanted you more, the way your muscles contract and squeeze me dry, taking every last thrust I have to give you. And afterwards, coming down off that rush, you'll lie there panting, breath coming in and out between your wet lips, and you'll look at me that way you used to. And you'll take red fruit from my mouth, as much as you can handle, and I'll wipe the juices on your chest with my fingers, sticky, and lick the pulp out of your mouth, soft and intense, until we're ready for second helpings, and start the whole fucking thing again, insatiable.

But that's up there. And there's a question in your eyes, right now, down here, and I don't even know where to start answering it.

What do I say to you, to even start to get you there? Do I say, this doesn't have to be just business? Do I say, we can still be good together? Do I say, if you come upstairs with me now, I'll make sure you never regret it? That I still want you with me? That there's only one thing I want, and it's you? That the games are over? That all I want is the best for you, to look after you, make you happy. Would I mean it, if I did? And would you still give a damn, really? I was always so fucking sure you would come when I called. I don't know when I stopped thinking I only had to click my fingers to have you, like I click them for the waiter, now. I know I've always been an arrogant bastard. I thought that was what you liked.

I order the steak. It's good here, but it's not steak I want. I hope you want it, though. You look like you need feeding up, so skinny I think from over here I could get both hands around your waist. I look across at you as you open your mouth to speak.

And, know what? Suddenly, it's like déjà vu. And I know exactly what's going to happen, here. You're going to order the salmon, like the awkward independent fucker that you are. And I will override you, because I know better than you do what you want, what's good for you. I have to be always putting you in your place, talking you down. It's my way of keeping this thing under control, that's always threatening to spill out, messy. And your face will turn bitter, and you'll strop and leave. I'll be left here, on my own, sipping the wine, and hating you and me more with every mouthful. And I'll take it all out on someone else, give them what I would have given you, except what matters. We'll go on like this forever, round and round and round. I am tired of it, so fucking tired. And there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it.

"Um … I'll have the pasta please mate, the Carbonara?"

Your voice is soft, polite, quiet. But it's like someone ripped a hole in time and space. My brain flips. When I speak, it's careful. Like I'm walking out onto ice.

"You don't want the salmon, Steven?" I ask you. "I thought you liked that stuff."

You wrinkle up your nose. Shake your head.

"Not really. Gone off fish a bit, me. Ate a lot of it for a while. You can have enough of something y'know."

I frown, but nod. This isn't what I was expecting. "Yeah," I drawl, to hide that you've taken me by surprise. "I get that." I guess maybe we both feel that we've had enough. But you're charging on, the way you always do.

"Anyway," you say, "I ate loads of fish and chips when … you know … no time to cook and that." Your eyes are careful. Soft. But it's like what you say is a hot knife in my side, my hand goes to my ribcage before I can stop it, and I use everything in my power not to show the stab of pain on my face, though the effort makes my head drop, my breath catch, my jaw set, my eyes narrow. It's important not to show when someone's hurt you. Just keep it in, and kick back later. I learned that, growing up.

But now, feeling that memory slice through me, I remember. I know why things are different, here. That other time, when we sat opposite each other, that time I fucked it all up, and it all turned into contracts and solicitors and ripping each other off … that was a long time ago. Long time. Feels like a different life. Like a dream. A fucking bad one, and no mistake. And in between, things have happened. A lot of things. Things I live with, every day.

I let someone get close to me. Someone else. I let them in. Let them read me, the way I never let you read me. I trusted him, and I don't even know why. Because I needed to, I guess. I just needed someone I could rely on. Someone whose face didn't make me want to tear things down with my bare hands. The one time – the one time I trusted someone. And the result was a fucking apocalypse. There were reasons, why I had those walls. Because outside, death's always stalking you. That's what my life was, just keeping death out. And if I kept life out as well, that was just the price you have to pay, right? But everyone has things that leave them weak, and he found every one of mine. People got hurt, people that I cared about. Someone died. It was my fault, I thought. I wanted to die, I think, for a while. And then I ended up with a chest full of bullet holes, and I had a chance to find out.

I don't know when I realized that you were there. There was quite a lot of Cheryl, crying, if I remember right. Watching the strip lights pass over my head as they wheeled me down the hospital corridor. Feeling everything slide away. My bones felt hollow. All those years, trying to be Brendan Brady, trying to keep it all at bay, and it came to this. I think I might have smiled. It seemed … ironic. I wondered if everyone would be relieved, to be rid of me. If I would. If it would be a relief, just not to have to carry on.

I'll tell you one thing. There was none of that white light stuff. I didn't feel at peace, there was no fucker waiting for a wayward son, to tell me it was all alright. There were no angels, and no devils. There was nothing. Just the dark. And the feeling that somehow, I'd been cheated.

And then there you were. Sitting there. Quiet. That was the thing really. You didn't cry, and you didn't even talk much. You just sat there, quiet. And it was unusual for you, usually nothing shuts you up, not even the end of the world, but it was a relief. Because I couldn't deal with the weeping and wailing, that just made everything a million times worse. I was sick of letting everyone down, the last thing I needed was to feel like even me dying was a fuck-up. But with you sat there, while I was waiting on oblivion, at least the room wasn't completely empty. You didn't seem to need anything from me, and I didn't need anything from you. I'm not sure I even knew who you were. I just knew I didn't want you to go.

There wasn't even much pain, at first. I guess it was Sister Morphine kept me going. That, and you. Coming and going, but mostly just sitting, like you had nothing better to do than sit on your arse with a piece of dead meat.

Then I think I remember you talking. Just in the quiet times, when there was no one there but you and me. If I was there, really.

_Remember all the times you hurt me, Brendan? You fucking … you fucking bastard. Why? Why did you do that?_

We should have had that conversation a long time ago. And you start it now. Just when a fella can't answer back. Can't try to make up for it. Maybe that was why. I think maybe you were gripping the seat of the chair, rocking backwards and forwards. Your words came out through gritted teeth.

Lost you for a bit after that. Things went black.

Then another time. Quieter, now. A long way off. Maybe five minutes later. Maybe five hours. Five days, weeks, years.

_You always said I'd come back to yer, didn't yer. That I could never walk away._

Thought you'd gone. You sound almost too tired to be bitter. Then suddenly, you sniff, that way you do. The sound of a chair, scraping. You off then? Finally?

_Well I'm goin' to get a cuppa. Might come back, might not. _

You, leaving. Stopping. Turning.

_But if you die while I'm gone, I'll kill you myself. End of._

A door, closing. Everyone's a joker, ain't they? You're a funny guy. I hope you'll be here all week. I'll remember to heckle.

Then another time. Seemed like it was very late. Real, real quiet. Dark. Not much light there at all. You sounded so knackered. Hardly talking out loud.

'_Member when you looked out for me, Brendan, when that Kyle guy was around? 'Member … Danny? _

Yeah, I remember. I remember all the people who wanted to hurt you. And I was doing such an amazing job of doing it all by myself. I remember how far I went to stop them. I took a life. Ironic, really. I guess it's payback time now.

_I guess I know now … I guess I know that you did it to protect me. You just want to protect us all, don't yer? _

Yeah. Bit late. I wish you'd known that, back then. I guess I just had a funny way of showing it. But if there's one thing I'm realizing, on my way to the graveyard, it's that you don't need me anymore. So I don't get it, what are you doing here, sitting through the night, with me?

_Hey, remember the first time I stayed over? It were always all right, weren't it, when it were just you and me?_

Very soft and quiet now, your voice. Yeah. That was all right. You always were. Your arm, thrown across my chest. Is that why it's fucking hurting so much?

'_Member in the morning, Bren, when Chez came in and you shoved me out the bloody bed?_

Yeah, I remember that. You slid onto the floor like a slinky then popped back up like a jack in the box, your eyes wide. Are you still here, though? Chez'll catch ye. I don't know why you're laughing. It's not fucking funny. OK, maybe it is. A bit. I spent my whole life hiding who I was. Then you came along and nearly blew the whole fucking thing wide open within a week. I guess there's a joke in there somewhere. I'll be sure to laugh my guts up when I've decided if I'm dead or not.

'_Member when you … 'member when you told me that you loved me? Brendan? And you said every day until you were in your grave, I'd be in your head?_

Your voice sounds thick and uneven, now. But yeah, I remember that. I never planned to say it. I wasn't trying to twist things my way, for once. I just knew it was true. And I was right, for once. Because the grave's calling, and you're still there. I can see your face. Your eyes. The way your eyebrows arch, like no one else's. The curve of your nose. The pout of your lips.

… _well I guess …_

What?

_Yeah. Me too. _

That's … confusing. Might not be such a good idea, Steven. I want you to live a long time. But without me.

I think I feel you stand up and come over.

Are you standing looking down at me right now? Gonna tell me it's all a joke? Gonna tell me I'm nothing to you now, like last time? Gonna read the last rites on us, what we were, what we had, whatever that was?

Are you touching my hand? Jesus, you got a grip on you. You always did.

_Wake up, you bastard. I'm not ready for you to die, am I?_

Well, life's a bitch, ain't it. And seems like death ain't much better. What a pair. No point crying over split milk. Don't cry. Don't. Really, don't. Please.

_I hate yer. I really, really hate yer. I never hated anyone as much as I hate you, not in my whole life. You selfish, arrogant, messed up … _

Yeah, thanks for that. I'm busy dying here. Your contribution is, as always, appreciated.

_But I still … I think … oh for fu … I love you, Bren. _

What?

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did someone just karate kick me in the solar plexus? Because fuck me, something is pumping, and Christ, the pain is unbe-fucking-lievable. There's bleeping sounds going off, alarms like someone just broke into the safe of the club. I'm sucking in air. Whether I want it or not. Do I want it? Do I? Because it hurts like nothing else in the fucking world.

Christ.

Fuck me.

Yeah, maybe I do.

I'm coming back.


	2. Chapter 2

****_Hello again! Thanks for the comments, as always. I don't know how I feel about this part. I mainly wrote it a couple of weeks back, and it's been strange that the show has given us actual good moments on screen, and this has a similar sort of regretful feel to that. So that's good, I guess. _

**Part 2**

Strange then, how you weren't there while I fought my way back. Cheryl, sure. Eileen, grudging, but there with the boys. But no you. No one even mentioned your name, and once I had the strength to speak I never knew how to bring it up. It died on my lips. Even Cheryl kept schtum, and she's the one who usually nags me about you. I was starting to wonder if I'd dreamt it, you just being there, quiet. If it was a memory of a time when I'd needed you, and in spite of everything, you just grabbed hold of me and let me hang on. If you were just a shadow, leading me through the dead lands.

It was Declan gave it away in the end. Days later, days spent half underwater, and then surfacing for real, and then Dec being there, his head down on his arms on the bed. And me reaching out a hand and touching his hair, and him looking up, and giving me a smile. And then days spent being tested, having tubes taken out, being prodded, feeling like I'd done ten rounds with Ali, but in between, him sitting on my bed, talking away, and me just listening and being glad that he was there, and that somehow the past didn't seem to matter to him anymore. Amazing what nearly dying can do.

"Aren't ye sick of spending time in this place with your old man?" I asked him, eventually, wincing, aching, after a week of it, feeling like I'd aged a hundred fucking years in the time I'd been in that bed, but half sat up now. Half alive, anyway. "Don't ye want to get back to your mates?"

"Naw," he shrugged. "Anyways, it's not been so bad. Ste was here a lot at the start."

Then he clamped his lips shut, looked at me, furtive.

I frowned. Tried not to make a big deal of it. But there was this tightening, in my throat.

"Steven was here, was he?"

He blushed. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that," he said to me. "Don't tell him I told ye. Please, Da." His eyes were pleading, apologetic.

I nodded my head, slowly. "Sure, no problem."

A pause, while he tried to find an answer. I tried to turn it into a joke, to let him off the hook.

"Bet your Mum loved that, didn't she?"

He shrugged, again. "She was fine with it. And he was here nights, mostly, so her and Auntie Chez could get some sleep."

Talking about you, with my son, made me wonder if I had died, after all. Or gone into some parallel universe. But there were things I needed to know.

"And he told you not to tell, did he?" I asked him. He winced now, screwed up his face for a moment.

"I think he just thought … y'know … maybe things were a bit … strange. Between you two."

I could barely hold in a laugh, except it hurt too much anyway. Yeah, strange. You could say that.

"It's no problem, Deccie. Forget it." My voice, like an old man's wheeze.

He nodded, reassured. Like a kid really, easily distracted, though he really wasn't any more. Taller than me, pretty much. Broad shoulders. I guess he'd had to carry a lot. I couldn't protect him anymore, I realized, any more than I could anyone else. And maybe I didn't need to. Then suddenly he blurted it right out.

"You should really go talk to him though, when you get out. Sort things out between you's two."

Christ. When did this become my life? Out of the mouths of babes.

"Is that right?" I could barely meet his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, as if it were that simple. "You owe him, really."

Like he was the wisest person in the room, all of a sudden. And maybe he was. But it wasn't that damn easy. Because you'd run, hadn't you? And if all I had waiting for me out there was walking back into that shop, that fucking deli, to watch you with someone else, back where I was months ago, I wondered if it might have been better if those surgeons had never patched me up and put me back together.

And maybe my skin and bones and flesh were healing. But I was still sick. Because now I was finally awake, the funny thing was, I couldn't fecking sleep. In the small hours, when there was no one there, I woke up with nightmares, horror crawling all over my flesh, my head full of the knowledge of death, eyes wide open. And not just death, not really, I could handle death. It was more the darkness. Things I'd done. To you. Things I'd never put right. Things I probably never could. And the docs could put me on that treadmill in the day to take my first steps for weeks, learn to walk again, rebuild my muscles. But they couldn't fix what came in the night. They tried. But it was words. It meant nothing. Talking just ain't my thing.

One night, just before I was sent packing, back to whatever was home, I took a walk. Anything other than stay in that bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing cries in the distance, while the minutes crawled past. Shuffled down half lit corridors. Found myself in the chapel. Just a room, really. The usual. No idea why people need those places, it's never helped me. But I sat in there, because I had nowhere else to be, and looked at that cross, matching the one on my chest, and wondered what the point was, when it was so fecking impossible to live up to. So impossible that no one ever really tried. I hadn't, anyway. And I thought about other things as well. People I'd lost, who never deserved what they got. People who'd died and deserved it, every last fucking blow. People who'd never got what they had coming for them, and never would, most likely. People I should have hurt sooner. People I never should have hurt. People I have cried for. Would have died for, and nearly did, peppered with round blackening scars, but still breathing. And none of it made a damn bit of sense. And if it didn't make any sense, I didn't know how to go back out there and do it all again.

Did you know priests do night shifts? Death never clocks off, I guess, and they're there for the grieving. There was one that night. Not one of the young baby-faced ones, thank Christ, one of those ones who doesn't even know what he wants yet and if he knew, if I showed him, would run from it faster than if a devil was on his tail. One who'd lived, this one, faced the devil down. One whose face said he knew what made life worth living. And had given it up, maybe.

"Anything I can help you with, son?" he asked me.

Son. The irony. I shook my head. "Wouldn't even know where to start, Father," I said.

He smiled. I guess it was funny.

"I've got all night," he said.

I looked at him. Maybe I laughed as well, grim. He nodded to the seat alongside, raised his eyebrows. I guess I kind of shrugged. Might as well have a chat, while I was there. There were so few times anyone ever listened. We don't, do we. We never stop and listen until it's too late.

"You believe in all this magic stuff, Father?" I nodded towards the cross, as he sat down. He followed my eyes, curious.

"Depends what you mean by magic."

I shrugged, again. "You know. Healing power of forgiveness, all that. Redemption. That stuff."

"Do you?" he asked me, turning it back on me, the fucker.

I shook my head. "I don't believe in magic."

He sighed, I think. I expect he thought I was another lost soul. Maybe I was. But he answered, eventually.

"Well you have to work for it, you know. Usually, you need repentance first. You don't cut straight to the main course." He almost laughed, now. Trust me to get a comedian. "Do you repent something?"

"Repent?" The word was like ashes in my mouth. I clasped my hands. "You mean, am I sorry? I'm sorry for plenty. I've hurt … people I never meant to."

He paused, careful. "And some you meant to?"

I looked at him, and back at my hands. I think he got the message. It would take more than a few Hail Marys to fix me.

"And you want it to stop?" he said.

I nodded. Suddenly, words were hard to come by. Like they were sat in my throat, choking me. "I've tried. I've made promises. They all get broken."

He thought about that for a bit. "Has anything changed for you, now?"

I nodded, eventually. "I want to be free of it. And I want … someone else … to be free, as well. I want him to be free to walk away."

There was what seemed like a very long silence, as he seemed to think about it. Him. Pronoun, masculine. I wondered if I was being judged, damned, as I always thought I was. If I even cared. But eventually, he looked at me.

"Well, I wouldn't call that magic," he said. "I usually call that love."

I didn't know how to meet his eye, but I did. And he held it. "Give it a go, some time," he said.

I shook my head, looked down at my hands. "Don't think I know how."

Another pause. He seemed to be thinking again. Remembering. His hands clasped in front of him. His eyes on that fecking cross.

"Generally speaking," he said, "it's not something you have to do on your own."

I looked back at him. He smiled, brief. Nodded. There didn't seem much more to say. He got up and left me.

I don't know how long I stayed there, after that. I won't go into what I thought, or what I did. But when I got up to go back to the bed I nearly died in, I felt like it was more than my legs I needed to re-learn to use of. There's people can help you with that, I've found. But you can find your own way. I usually do.

* * *

Coming home was the strangest damn thing. It might have been easy, maybe, to let everything slide. To go back to how I'd always been. But I wasn't ready to pull the suit back on, the mask. It felt like dying, and I didn't want to die, not now. And Cheryl was there every day, and the look in her face told me that I couldn't go back. There was anger, that I'd nearly let myself die, that I'd got myself and everyone else into such a fucking mess. She kept it below the surface, but it was there. She didn't need to say it. I'd heard it all before, her disappointment, and I didn't ever want to have to hear it again.

And there was you. I stayed away, for a while. A week or more, after I got back. I guess I was putting it off, seeing you. I needed to recover, Cheryl said. But truth is, I didn't even know how to start. How do you start to say, I know somewhere in there, you're still waiting for me, and I want you to stop. Marry your fella, get a dog, do whatever you want. You're free. I'm letting you go. Be happy. Because the thing is, you and me, we'd never talked. Never. Not really. Sometimes, you'd rattled on in bed, afterwards, we could do this, we could do that, and I'd just let you run on, feeling the weight of your head on my chest, or against my shoulder, and screened out the words, because I knew I'd never do any of it, but I didn't mind hearing you say it. And there were other ways to shut you up, if I needed to. But we'd never talked. I just don't use words like that.

But it had to be done. I got up one day and looked at myself in the mirror, and I knew it had to be that day. Because we could never wipe this thing clean until it was done. And I needed to go back to square one, try to make a better fist of life this time. What was left of it. For some reason, the hardest thing was, I didn't know what to wear. I tried the shirt, the jacket. I looked like I was hollow. I threw them off and pulled on jeans instead, pulled a sweater over my head, still wincing as I did. I think my days of dressing up to impress you were over. Then I took my keys and went down into the village. Moving more careful than usual, every step like a reminder of what a mess I'd made of everything. I stopped outside the shop. I couldn't see you through the window. But that made it easier, opening the door and going inside.

There was someone, behind the counter. Tall lad, skinny, curly hair, bit mad, plum in his mouth. I guessed you must have taken him on to help. He looked up and sort of froze, mouth open. He'd come for a job at the club once. I treated him like I treated everyone. Like shit. I don't even know why. It's almost like it's what I thought was expected.

"Ah," he said now, nervous. "Brendan." Looked over his shoulder, to the back room. The place I guessed you were. With him, probably. Doug. With Doug. Unbelievable. But true. He was talking again, a bit jittery. Reached under the counter, and brought out a jar of something. Held it up, hopeful. "Your usual?"

Jam. It was fucking jam.

"No," I said. "No. What makes you think I'd want that?"

His face fell, like he'd thought I'd be pleased.

"Oh," he said, all disappointment, "It's just … I found this down here, and I asked Ste what it was for," a nervous swallow, "and he said it was for when you came in."

For a second, I wavered. Just bloody like him, to be waiting for me. But I manned up, shook my head.

"I haven't come to eat," I said. "I just want a word." He stood, his eyebrows raised, a half smile. I sighed. "With your boss," I said, spelling it out.

"Oh," he said, the penny dropping. "Of course. Yes."

"It's all right, Barney," a voice said, quiet, controlled. "I'll deal with this." You standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping your hands on a tea towel. "Can you take over for a bit?" you said to him.

"Right," he said, "yes." And disappeared, sharpish.

You stood opposite me. I looked over you. You looked tired, but alive. You gave nothing away, guarded. How to start?

"How are you, Brendan?" you asked me, quiet, level.

"OK," I said. "I'm OK." Articulate, witty. I'm sure this used to be easier, talking to you. I'm sure I was Don fucking Juan, once.

"That's good," you said. A half message in your eyes. Maybe. "You gave everyone a scare, you know." Then you corrected yourself. "Cheryl. You gave Cheryl a scare. But you look … " An awkward pause, where you don't know how to finish, and I don't know if I want you to. But you stick your chin out and go for it. "You look good, Brendan."

For some reason, it makes me almost laugh. "Yeah," I say, running a hand over my stubble, the tache only just back in shape. "Better than I did, for sure." And what I want to say is, you look good too. Because seeing you on the other side of that counter makes my pulse throb. The look of you, the whole of you, how you stand, how you move, the flash of your eyes. There is just something about you. I want to pick you up, all arms and legs, and carry you off somewhere, and lay you down, and strip you, and fuck you. I've always felt that way, from the first damn day I saw you. But this isn't the first day, is it? Lot of water under the bridge since then.

Another silence. Then you, your eyes more curious, softer.

"Can I get you anything?"

I look around. "No Douglas?" I ask.

You meet my gaze, level. Maybe a flicker. "No," you say. Nothing else. And I can see why you'd want to keep him out of this.

And then there's no words again, while I just take you in. My head on one side. I'll just let myself have this, for old time's sake. The curve of your neck. The way your hair lies against your head. The arch of one of your eyebrows, as you get impatient.

"Brendan?" You say, prompting, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," I say, coughing. "Steven."

You blink. Your eyelashes out to here, like always. You frown, puzzled. Maybe you're wondering if more than my spleen and lungs got damaged.

"What, Brendan? Spit it out."

Jesus, when did you get so stroppy? Maybe you've always been. Maybe it was why you drove me so mad. Maybe it was why … I just never could walk away.

"I've just come to let you know that …" Ok, I'm almost stopping here. Try again. "You and me … there's nothing owed." I stop. That'll do, right?

"Nothing owed?"

OK, maybe not. I clear my throat, again.

"All debts written off," I say. "You and me. Between us."

You frown, again. Like you're trying to work out what it might mean. "Is that what you want?" you ask me. "All debts written off?"

I run a hand over my hair. And all I know is, I need this knot, untied.

"Sure," I say. And then I find the balls to meet your eyes, properly. "What's yours is yours, Steven," I say. "I won 't …" and I stop, trying to find words. "I won't bother you, again," I say, finally, holding your gaze.

You look at me, surprised, and say nothing. I don't know if that's what I expected, after everything. And then finally, some words come. Like from nowhere, when I finally found my mouth saying what my brain had been denying for a long time. That I loved you.

"I'm sorry," I say.

And for a few seconds, long ones, there's only you and me. Your eyes are really really blue, penetrating, and your mouth slightly open with the surprise, and the silence between us seems thick and humming, and I just really really need you to know that I'm sorry.

Suddenly, I need to be out of there.

"Well … this has been …" I start, but I can't finish. We have been a lot of things, you and me, not all of them good. I square my shoulders. "Don't be waiting for me, Steven," I say. And from the look in your eyes, I think you understand. There's a flicker there, anyway. I guess that's enough.

And that's it. I turn and walk out. My insides as screwed as they were on that hospital bed, bleeding out.

And that's it. I'm going to walk away from here, and I'm not going to look back, and you'll be safe, and happy, and I'll be … somewhere else. And whatever it was that happened over two years ago, when you walked into my bar, Cheryl's bar, and asked what positions I'd got, anything to keep your mouth shut, and when I saw you in the basement, just sitting there, unaware, but so ready, and when you first came back to the flat, and you were drunk, and funny, and open, so open, and so willing, and you kissed me and it was everything I expected, but something I didn't as well, and then when I took you in the basement, and in your flat, all open mouth and sweat and shaking hands and stiff cock and embarrassment and abandonment, and you came back again and slept over because I couldn't bring myself to chuck you out, you vaulting over my body and landing on the bed, laughing, and coming to rest inside my arm, and when we were at work, and I knew from the way you looked at me that you were mine, and then when you started to slip out of my hands, and I couldn't breathe … whatever happened back then, that connected something in my ribcage direct to something in yours so that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break it, whatever that was that has taken us round the houses, and brought us back here to where we started, whatever that was … I'm dissolving it now.

But somewhere behind me, there's a sound. Footsteps. Someone's.

"Brendan!"

Yours.


	3. Chapter 3

****_Hello again! Thanks for all the comments. Here's another slice. Hope no one's expecting too much plot here. I'm no good at plot! Anyway ..._

**Part 3**

You've followed me out. Now we're standing together in the village. Same place pretty much where you told me that you were angry with me, that you were always angry with me, that I always let you down, just like I was letting you down right then, and the whole thing went down the pan, and I suddenly felt I'd do anything to keep you. Anything. In that moment, I really believed it, anyway.

I turn around. You've taken off that apron thing you wear in the shop, left it behind. You look more like you without it. Which just makes it fucking harder.

"What?" I smile, tight, but still something in me turns to water at the sight of you.

You look a bit awkward, now. Like you hadn't exactly thought this plan through before you came after me.

"It doesn't have to work that way, you know," you say, quiet. "There are other ways." You gesture with your hand towards me.

"Oh yeah?" I say. "Like wha'?" Because whatever it is, it ain't a good idea.

"I just thought," you start, your eyes holding mine, "now you're better, y'know …"

"Wha'?" For some reason, I want to take a step closer to you, like you're some fucking magnet. But I stop my feet from moving. I'm supposed to be going the other way, any way, back to Ireland, anyfuckingwhere.

"I thought you might …" You screw up your nose a bit, then go for it. "I thought you might like to go for a drink some time."

You stop. There's a silence. And this is … unexpected. Not just you, asking me for a drink, which is hilarious enough. But the way it makes me feel. Suddenly, you catch yourself.

"As, um, mates, you know."

I nod. "Mates, sure."

Last time I had a mate, it really didn't end well. I nearly bled to death from every essential artery I had. This isn't what I came here for. It's the opposite of what I came for, pretty much. Almost. I know what you're trying to do here. You're trying to find a way in. And I don't want to let anyone back in. Least of all you.

I can think of a million reasons not to have that drink.

A whole world of reasons.

Like all the dark places I've taken us to. Cellars. Lock-ups. The yard outside your house, where I made sure once and for all that I was on my own. Unforgiveable. And I can think of every battle I've fought, everyone who's ever been out to hurt me and the people I love, everyone I've ever had to clench my fist against, every scar on my skin, every burn mark, and other marks, inside, the echo of words like weapons. Queer. Puff. Nancy boy. Words I didn't even know how to fight, for a long time. Every wound a reminder that the whole fucking world was against me, and always would be.

So yeah, there's a whole army of troubles standing between me and that drink, bayonets out. My battles are never done. No rest for the wicked.

But the thing is … it's real lonely going up against the world on your own. And I'd like, just for once before I go, not to be alone.

"What would Douglas have to say about that?" I ask you. Because I know what I want, really. Always have. But at least there's still something stopping me taking it.

You look down for a second, then back at me.

"Doug's gone," you say. Your voice seems pretty firm.

There's another of those goddamn pauses which say more than we ever do.

"Gone?" Does that mean what I think it means?

"Yeah," you nod. You look sad, but I wouldn't say from your face that your world had ended.

"How come?" I ask you.

It's your turn to look away now, round the village. Your eyes narrow a bit.

"I've been … busy," you say. Then back at me. "I didn't have much time for him, a few weeks back. What I had left wasn't enough." Then it's like you catch yourself. "With Amy, and the kids, and Manchester and everything."

Yeah, I think. And me. And my sorry ass.

"I'm sorry," I say. I'm not. I couldn't stand the little creep. I thought you could do better. I hated that you were with him. And I hated that you were with him just because he wasn't me. But he served his purpose. He stopped me reaching out to take you back. And this is starting to feel dangerous.

"Don't be," you say. "I'll manage on me own."

And I realize what you mean.

"What'll you do about …?" I gesture to your shop, that place you set so much store by. "Cos I could …"

"No chance," you say, eyes wider now. Then catch yourself. Start again, calmer. "I'm getting a loan to buy him out. It's easier now. Going concern, see." You look at me, as if you want to make amends. "Nothing owed, right?" Your voice is strangely soft.

I nod. "Sure." Independent fucker, aren't you? Maybe I'm not the only one who feels a need to fight my own battles. I know you'll take nothing from me, now. And I never should have offered. But I can't stop this instinct, to see you all right. That's all I want now, really. To do right by you. And it's what scares me more than anything.

But then you must think it's sorted, because it's like you brighten up, like a light comes on in your face, just a bit. I always liked that, how you did that.

"You'll come for a drink, then?"

What the fuck? Did my mouth bypass my brain and say yes?

"A drink," I say, as if I hardly understand it.

"Yeah," you say, "good." Like it's all arranged. "As mates, though," you say, scrunching your forehead. "Don't get any funny ideas."

Your face has this appeal. I haven't seen it for as long as I can remember. You must know I've never been able to resist that look.

"No. I won't get any funny ideas, Steven." I say. Then I feel a twitch. A twitch, that feels like the old me. I can't keep it in. "I'm not allowed, anyway," I tell you. You look puzzled. "Doctor's orders."

And you get it, finally. And you laugh. God, you laugh. And it was me that made you. There've been times I'd have walked a hundred miles to hear you laugh like that. But it didn't matter what I said, you took it all the wrong way, and you'd be mad, and all there'd be was a frown, and it was always my fault. But you're smiling, now.

And then it's like you stop yourself. As if, after everything, we're not allowed. But you don't change your mind.

"See you in The Dog at seven," you say.

And then you turn and walk away. And so do I. I sort of hope you're looking over your shoulder, and watching me go. You would have been, once. Now, I'm never as sure. But maybe that's a good thing.

* * *

Right up to the time, I didn't think I'd go. Insane, right? Certifiable. But I'd let you down too many times before. And anyway, you might not be there yourself. If you had any sense.

But you were.

Sat at the bar, as I walked in. I saw you, straight off. The back of your head, the way the hair is almost shaven there, at the nape of your neck. Your narrow shoulders. Your back, lean, T shirt hanging off it, but not like it used to. You've filled out. Your clothes skim that new body of yours.

Two drinks, already there. You, chatting to Jack about business like the Big Man. But I guess you are that now. A bigger man than you were when we started this. Bigger man than me, in a lot of ways.

It's like you sense when I walk towards you, because your head cranes round, looking back over your shoulder. There's a second's pause, like you're just taking me in, working out how to play this. But then you pull a little smile.

"Got you a drink," you say.

And I pull up the seat beside you, and sit. "Thanks," I say. When have I ever thanked you? For anything? Once, maybe. After someone died, and I was on my own, and you helped, and it was more than I deserved.

Jack's still there. He nods.

"Good to have you back in the land of the living, Brendan," he says. I nod back. He's a good bloke. Had a dalliance with both sides of the law, and knows life isn't simple. There's not many round here who'll be glad to have me back. And even fewer who'd want to see me sitting beside you right now. I expect most of them think I should have died. The nice ones would probably settle for me being put away to rot forever.

Not you though, apparently. I lift my glass to my mouth, as Jack heads off to serve.

"Hang on," you say. "Cheers." And you clink my glass. I hardly know what to say. Luckily, you're not usually lost in that department. "Feels more like a celebration now, dunt it?" you say.

And I want to laugh. What are we celebrating here? My spectacular failure to die as planned? Or my equally spectacular failure to end this dance between us?

But it's funny how it doesn't feel like failure to be sat there beside you, drinking, and tasting it, sharp and sour and crisp. I keep looking ahead. Partly because it hurts to turn, and partly because it's just easier, not having to look you in the eye the whole time, but to know you're beside me, the warmth of your shoulder through your T shirt just inches away, though you never touch me, and I get why. I can see the hair on your arms, when I glance down. Remember what it felt like, under my hands. But I don't touch, either. Instead I just sit, and listen, as you start.

"How are you really, Brendan?" you ask me. And there's that appeal in your eyes again. Your look goes straight to my chest, I mean your eyes go there, but your voice does as well. I feel it. There's something about you, asking about me. Not about Cheryl, or the kids, but me. Something … direct.

I look down at my pint, for a second.

"Alive," I say, and look at you. And I guess that's enough. Though I'm not sure I really felt it. Until today, maybe.

I wonder, not for the first time, what I'm doing here. What is it that meant that I couldn't walk away? What is it that I still need from you?

You nod, anyway. Like you understand.

"Declan's gone back?" you ask me.

"You saw him?" I ask, right back atcha, because you walked into that one.

Your eyebrow twitches, but you give nothing away. "Cheryl told me, didn't she," you say. You're better at this than you used to be, aren't ye? You can hold your own.

I nod. "Yeah, he's gone home. He needs to get back to his own life. I've distracted him enough. "

"And what will you do, Brendan?" you ask me.

I shrug. "I might go back, this time," I say. "They don't need me, but it's as good a place as any." I look at you. You don't need me either, I think. But you look sort of shocked.

"What about the club?" you ask me, your brows pulled together, as if you're trying to take it in.

"I'm sure Joel can find better partners than me," I say.

You nod, slowly. "When will you go?"

Now there's a question. I shrug, again. "It depends on Cheryl, partly."

And now your mouth falls open. Your fucking perfect mouth. She hadn't told you then.

"Cheryl's going as well?!"

I look at you, long and level. "Maybe. There's a lot of bad memories here. For both of us."

You take this in. You look like you want to say something, but stop yourself.

"I'll miss her," you say, instead. But you're looking at me. And I don't know why, but I feel a need to wipe the lines that have come to visit on your brow.

"I'm in no hurry to sell," I tell you. "Joel's got it covered. Mostly." You glance at me, sidelong. "You know what he's like," I say, holding your eye.

And it's like you give this small laugh, and your shoulders relax, and something in me relaxes with them. "Yeah," you say. "I got the general gist." Then you sort of pout, a bit, but there's a tease in your eyes. "Bet he doesn't manage the bar like me, does he?"

I shake my head, slow. "No. No, he doesn't manage the bar anything like you."

And now we're both smiling, slow. It feels like it could go on forever. Like it felt like those times in the cellar, and in the office, and in the cubicles, would go on forever, hardly even bothering to wait for everyone else to be out of the way before I laid hands on you, unbuckling, running hands underneath your top, watching you struggle to get your arms out of that hoodie double quick, and then just skin on skin, and heat, and mouths open, and a blur of sensations, intense, a desperate need for your mouth, or your taut little arse, or both, and your desperation to give it, or take it, until everything just melted into one great fucking moan of pleasure, my hands all over your legs, your hips, your cock, and then gasping for air, and coming down from the high, hot, spent, lost for a second, but feeling your body still pressed against mine. I wonder if you're thinking about the same thing. From the look of it, I'd say yeah.

But then it's like a shadow crosses over your face, and it disappears. And I know what you're thinking about now. You're thinking about how it ended. How I fucked everything right up between us. You're thinking about the night I fired you. I suppose it doesn't help that I regretted it every day after that? No, thought not.

I need to find something else. What do people do, in these situations? What did I used to do? I used to think I knew you, every bone and sinew and flicker of emotion, every honk of laughter, every sigh. The way you grinned, all teeth, when you were happy. The way your shoulders sagged and feet dragged when you were tired. And I think I knew the things that could make you smile, when I felt like seeing it. What the hell were they?

"How's the kids?" I ask you.

"They're good," you say. But you look sad. "Spoke to Leah last night. She loves that new school."

But you stop, like you can't go on.

"It gets easier," I tell you.

You turn your head towards me, looking for some reassurance. But there's an edge in your voice.

"Does it?" you say, and I know you don't believe me.

"No," I say, because I owe you that. "It doesn't. But you'll be all right."

And your eyes stay locked on mine. And you nod, eventually. And this is getting bad now. Because all I want to do is put a hand on your back, and take some of the strain away. But I don't. Both hands stay on the bar, turning my pint around. I can't help thinking there was a time when you dumped a whole pint over my head. I expect I deserved that as well. I deserved it all.

So I change tack. I ask you about the business. And you rattle on for a bit. Tony's been giving some advice, so you say, though I can't help thinking that's about as useful as a toaster in hell. And you tell me about the lad, Barney, and how you took him on when Doug left. Except you stop, when you get to the last bit.

"When I was left on me own," you say, instead.

And I nod. Back in America, is Doug. I asked around. May have happened to bump into that Barney lad in the street. Just by accident, because there's always ways of finding out what you need to know. And again, you don't seem too bothered to me.

Anyway, I don't know how we do it, but an hour's gone. And no one has killed anyone, and no one has cried, and the world hasn't ended. But your pint is finished. And you stand up, off your stool. And I don't want you to go. I never did. I always just had this feeling, to keep you near. I never meant that. You just got in under my radar somehow.

"I need to get home," you say. "Books to do. And I might ring the kids again."

I half open my mouth. I could help you with that, I want to say, the books. And in the old days, I'd have made a joke. "I'm good with figures," I'd have said. Given you a wink or flashed you a grin. Christ, I have been a cocky twat. I say nothing.

But you're looking at me. "Yeah," you say, a bit of sass, "you're good with figures, I know." But then you sniff. "But I can manage on me own, I told yer. Thanks."

I shrug. "OK," I say, but I don't know how you got into my head like that. And I know now that you're going to go, and it was nothing, just a drink. A quiet drink, between guys. Guys with a past, but still just guys. And now it's over. And it meant nothing.

"Do yer wanna do this again, then?" you ask me.

What? For a second, I'm not sure I heard it, but you're looking at me, waiting for an answer.

"Sure," I say. But I'm not. I'm not sure of anything anymore, pretty much.

And for that, I get a half smile. Just careful. But real.

"Call me, then," you say. And there's like a challenge, in your eyes. Like you're hitting the ball back into my court in whatever this game is we're playing. The game of careful polite conversation. The only game we play, now that all the other playing's over. "See yer," you say. And then you're gone, heading out, leaving a space behind that still seems so full of you I swear I could draw it with my hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

So that's how it started. A drink, couple of times a week. Three. OK, four, maybe. It was hard to stop, once I'd made that first call. You have no fucking idea how hard that was. How furious with myself I was, to be nervous, palms pricking at the thought of calling you. Just for a drink. My tongue stuck to my mouth. It was ridiculous. Then just going for it. Hearing your voice.

"Hiyer." Just that.

And having to clear my throat, like some lad whose balls haven't dropped yet.

"Steven …"

A pause.

"Yeah? What's up?"

Christ, you're really not gonna help me out here, are ye?

"You said … a drink."

A pause. Fuck, are you laughing? This isn't funny.

"Oh right," you say, "yeah."

"Well?"

"Well, are you asking?"

Christ. I could do with a drop of the hard stuff right now, to be honest.

"Yeah."

A pause. And you decide I've suffered enough.

"Yeah, OK. When?"

I used to be so good at this. "Pick you up at seven," I said to you once, a lifetime ago, the very first time I took you anywhere, just me and you, your best bib and tucker on and your hair combed down, reeking of lad on the pull. The very first time I got to taste you, and I got a whole lot more than I bargained for. And back then I knew you'd be there, bang on time, knew you'd be gagging for it. I had you almost right where I wanted you. Now, I don't know where you are in your life. Or where I am in mine. I just know I'd like to take some time to sit at that bar with you, and listen to you talking, and feel your shoulder close by mine. That's all. So I have to find some bollocks.

"Eight?" I say. No idea why. Don't wanna seem too desperate. Though I'd see you in five minutes, given less than half a chance.

"OK," you say. "Gotta go, we're well busy here. See yer."

And you ring off. And I feel like a dick.

But you still turn up. It's eight, and I'm there, and I get the drinks in. Darren lays them out with that twitchy smile, just a bit nervous, like he always is around me, and I wonder who gets nervous like that, a grown man? And then I hear something, the scuff of feet on the floor, and I turn my head, and it's you. Standing there, dark blonde head, suspicious blue eyes, dirty mouth, and I've known every inch of you, inside and out, but now fuck me if I'm not sort of nervous around you. So maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge, as Cheryl's ma always said. But you're still there, and you crack a bit of a smile, maybe just a bit smug that now I get to wait for you.

"All right?" you say, your eyebrow arched.

I take you in. Breathe. "Yeah," I say. "All right."

Deathless.

And like I said, that's how it starts. Something. Nothing. An understanding. I have no fucking clue, really. Just you and me, sitting together at a bar, and no drinks get thrown, and no voices get raised, and no one storms out. The opposite. You amuse me. You can do that, just by talking. I never really knew.

What do we talk about? No idea. Ordinary stuff, at first. Life. Business. That was pretty safe. Family. Cheryl. Declan, Padraig. Eileen. Amy. Leah, Lucas. Supporting cast. You talked about friends, a bit. Barney. He seemed an unlikely mate, but you liked him, you said. He'd helped out when you needed it most. How you were a bit jealous, that you never had the brains to go to college like that. I watched you talk and realized there was nothing wrong with your brains. You used to drive me mad, I thought I was so much smarter than you. But now … well, you're not the one who ended up losing half his bodyweight in blood, are you? You told me how he liked Chez, this Barney fella. How he'd admitted it one day when you'd split a bottle of wine round at yours, trying to work the books together for the first time without Doug, and you'd both got a bit mashed after, and he'd told you he liked my sister.

"Is that right?" I ask you, raising an eyebrow. An instinctive desire to fend him off.

"He's all right, is Barney," you say, taking a swig. "Cheryl could do a lot worse, you know."

Your face. Full of sass. All right, I know. I'm hardly the kind of guy you introduce to your family myself. It's only later that I wonder if you talked about me as well.

"Well at least he's loaded," I say, take a dig back.

And then you told me he didn't even have that, he'd lost all his money, because he fell out with his Mum and Dad. And you knew what that felt like. You were looking thoughtful.

And it took me back. I'd never asked, not since the very beginning, when I did a bit of digging about you. When you first came to work, and I asked. "Mum and Dad not helping you out with the kids?" And you snorted. "Not bleeding likely."

And later, months later, in bed, quiet. You hand, holding on to mine, draped around a shoulder.

"I never see 'em now, me."

And I'd felt a whole mix of things. Secure, knowing no one could threaten what we had. But you'd seemed so alone, as well. A desire to protect you, that caught me on the back foot, it was so strong.

"What about you?" you ask me, now.

And I shake my head, confused.

"What?"

"Do you ever wanna see your Dad?"

We've never gone there. Not since … not for a long while. I hear myself exhale, long, slow, a moan escaping between my teeth, shaking my head. My face tenses.

"You don't have to, you know," you say. "Not if you don't want to. Some things can't really be fixed."

And I look at you, and wonder. You give me a sort of smile. Encouraging. But I think it's just because you're being so fucking … nice.

Anyway, that's what we talk about, as the beers go down. Stuff we've never really tried before. And it feels … strange. Sometimes, I grit my teeth. But not wrong. Not wrong, to talk about Cheryl's ma, taking me in. About being the cuckoo in the nest. About school. Or skipping it. Mal. Peter. Being crap at football. Not much, on any of it. A comment. And then a look. Is it OK to go on? Yeah, it's OK.

About getting married, what that felt like. You wanted to marry Amy, you say. You laugh. But you look a bit sad, actually.

"Her loss," I say. And I do something I haven't done yet. I nudge your shoulder with my shoulder. A joke. But the warmth of it, the contact, stays with me. And the feeling that just maybe, you were blushing.

It's not like anything's gonna happen. But I like that I can still make you do it.

And in all that time, those weeks, while we sit at the bar, the club never gets sold. I got it valued, but did nothing. It just never seemed like the right time. I asked Cheryl, did she want to move back to Ireland, and she just shrugged.

"Maybe," she said. "There's not much for us here now, is there?"

But that didn't seem a great reason to go.

"I don't know about that," I said, sitting down next to her, feeling her head drop down onto my shoulder, like it used to. Relishing the feeling that at least someone still let me support them. "What if I told you ye got a secret admirer?"

And I almost felt, more than saw, a smile appear on her mouth, for all she looked so tired by everything. She laughed, weary.

"Oh yeah?" she said. "Says who?"

And then it was my turn to be awkward. I looked down at my hands. I gave it up.

"Steven told me," I said.

She sighed. "Mm," she said. Just that. I hadn't hidden it, that I was seeing you. But she hadn't asked, either.

"He's just … he's just a friend, Chez," I said. Strange word. Friend. Old acquaintance. Old flame. I have no idea what you were, really.

"OK," she said, as if she had no energy left for fighting. "Just … be careful."

She threaded her fingers between mine. Gave a squeeze.

"Gonna tell me who this admirer is, then?" she asked me.

And I looked down on her, and thought maybe she seemed a little happier than she had for a long while.

So I never brought up the club, and selling up, and moving. And you never asked. Like if you did, somehow, it might make it happen.

But a little while later, week or so, I was locking up on my own and I saw her. Cheryl ,walking through the village, slowly, on her way somewhere. Like she was taking time to look around her for the first time in a long time. And she wasn't on her own. She was with that tall goofy lad, arm through his. Heads together, close. Too young for her, really, it'd never last. But I guess that doesn't have to be a problem. It can wake you right up, having someone younger around. And I heard her laughing. I hadn't heard that for a long time. And I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, that I hadn't even known was there, I'd been carrying it for so long. Most of my life, maybe. And I was grateful to you, for that.

And in the mean time … we met. You were what I measured my weeks by, the times I saw you. I worked the club, and stayed away, but then there'd be a text, or a call, and a man would walk into a bar, and it'd be me, and you'd be there, and you were what I wanted to see.

And it was going nowhere. All we did was talk. Just that. And I did not give a damn. I didn't care about tomorrow, or the day after, when I was with you. All you have, is today. A face, that you care about. A voice. There is nothing else. You learn that, when the lights go out, and the last thing you feel is your pulse slowing to nothing. I wanted nothing. I lacked nothing. And for once, finally, I regretted nothing. Almost, anyway.

Maybe that's the place I needed to get to. Where I didn't want anything any more. Where that itch that had driven me all my life, into every last fucking car crash of my life, was gone. Where I was free of it. Where you could be, as well, because I didn't spend my whole life trying to pin you down, control you, own you. Where I felt almost no desire for you.

I said, almost.

Because I won't lie, there were other thoughts that came in the night, pretty much against my will. Or in the shower. There was that time a couple of weeks back, taking a shower before I came to meet you, eyes closed under the water, feeling it run over my body and in rivers down my legs, when I got the buzz of you being there. As if you were standing, naked as the day you were born, on the other side of the cubicle door. And as if you opened it, and got in, behind me. I felt you pressed up against me, your mouth resting between my shoulder blades, your cheeky half hard cock right up against my arse. And I felt your hand come round and grab hold of my cock, and clench your fingers around it, firm. A laugh, into the space between my shoulder blades. And then you pumped. Slow, at first, so slow, like there was all the time in the world to get where we were going, but then hard, impatient, greedy, so hard when I came it was like you'd ripped the damn thing out of me.

You weren't there, when I opened my eyes, refocused, took a breath, saw the spunk sliding down the tiles. But it was good to know that everything was still in working order. And it gave things an extra buzz when I walked into the bar and saw you there, giving me a smile and a nod.

So yeah, almost. Not quite. There are still things I regret. And there are still things I want. And more than anything, I don't know why it's still so fucking hard to ask you what I really want to know. Why you came to the hospital. And why you left.

It was a few weeks down the line, before I caught you out. You seemed … happier. More relaxed. Your guard was down. You were telling me some story about Tony flipping Hutchinson, and I was listening. Toying with some pretzels, hardly touching them. Crumbling them, in my fingers, onto the bar top. I nodded, and smiled, in the right places. Some old instincts starting to kick in. Wondering if there was a way I could bring you round to the hospital, make you say what I needed to know. I'm not proud of it. Old habits die hard. But you just stopped.

"Not got much appetite still, have yer?" You ask me.

I shake my head, slowly. You have no idea. I have lost pounds. Understandable, in that hospital, because what didn't come through an intravenous tube was inedible, pretty much. I have worked some of it back up, the muscle. But I'm not completely who I was, tooled up to fight off the world. And I don't have my hunger back. I have been given another chance at life. But my lips don't smack at the prospect.

"You've got to eat, you know," you say.

I look at you. "Gonna tell me I need to get my strength up?" I'm teasing. And my reward is, I think you blush again. You know what I used to be able to do with my strength.

But you deflect it. "I'll do you sommat nice from the deli, if you like." You look at me, direct, now. "You should come in. I'll make you lunch. On me."

Well look at you, the big man, trying to look after me. And I'm touched. I really am. But if I start walking into that shop again, like it was mine, I think I might be in there every day. And we know where that leads. Madness. It's safer if we keep this right here.

"Maybe," I say. And you are looking at me, careful, through strangely serious eyes. "Thanks, though," I say. "I appreciate it, really Steven." So formal. So much distance, again, suddenly. You dissolve it with a smile.

"Any time," you say. And then you gesture with your head, towards my chest.

"How are your … you know …?"

I look at you. My hand goes to my ribcage, automatic, protective. Rubs across the wounds, careful. There are no bulky dressings there now. Plenty of scar tissue, but that comes with the territory.

"OK," I say, "more holes than a swiss cheese."

You laugh, suddenly. "Stitches out yet?" you ask me.

"Yeah," I say. "They put some zippers in instead." Fuck, Brady, always the jokes, when you don't know what else to say.

But you laugh, again. You help yourself to a pretzel from the dish in front of me, easy, and pop it in your mouth.

"Even the one over your spleen? Cos the docs were really worried about that."

Then you freeze. Because this all got so easy, you forgot. You're not supposed to know. I look at you, long and steady. You look awkward.

"Ch … Cheryl told me," you say.

I nod, slowly. And then I take a breath. Because it's time. Do or die. It's taken us long enough to get here. And I've been putting this off, because … well because I liked it, this kind of equilibrium, this kind of hanging half on, half off the cliff. And I know when I say these words, we won't get it back. But sometimes you just have to do something. And I've got an idea.

"Ever think about the past, Steven?"

I'm looking down again, at my pint. My hands trace patterns on the bar, either side.

"What do you mean?" you ask me. "Which bits?" You look uncomfortable. First time I've seen that in a while. But I have to go on.

I shake my head, slowly. "I dunno ... things that happened. Between you and me." I look at you. Yeah, that. You know, the place we never go. The one thing we haven't said a word about. Not a damn word.

You lick your lips. "Like what?" you ask me. Your hand turns your pint around on the bar top. Your eyes are cast down, hidden behind those lashes. But I'm going to make you look at me.

"Just … things," I say. "Like you staying over, the first time, when Chez nearly caught ye." I give a laugh, just low, I can't help it. I look across at you. And yeah, you're looking at me now, I've got your attention. But you're not saying anything. So I go on. "Or about Kyle. D'ye ever think about that? That night I went in your place? What happened … after?"

"Why would I?" you say, but your voice is soft. It doesn't sound very convincing. I feel like it's all hovering right there, between us. But there's more.

"Ever get angry, Steven … about things I did? Things I did to you? You still angry about that?" My voice is quiet, now.

"No …"

"I don't blame you, Steven, if you are."

There's a pause. You sit up in your stool, flex your back a bit. Your bottom lip comes out. But I think what's about to come out might be a bit more honest.

You take a breath.

"Try not to think about it, me," you say. "It's in the past, innit."

Your eyes are serious, smoky.

"Maybe you should," I say.

You nod, slowly, your lips pressed together.

"Do you think about it?" you ask me, suddenly.

I look down at my pint.

"I had a lot of time for thinking," I say. "In that hospital. You know that."

You look just a bit awkward.

"Oh yeah?" you ask me, evasive, side-stepping. "What else did you think about, then?"

"Oh," I say, "you know. Things that I'd said to you. About you being in my head." My eyes are fixed on you, now. "I don't know why I'd be thinking about that," I say. "Do you?"

And I can almost feel the heat come off you. Suddenly, your shoulders sag, just a bit. You look down for a moment. But then you look up. You meet my eyes like a man, your chin juts out. You take a breath. Do or die.

"You know, don't you?" you say.

"Know what?" I ask you, drawling, keeping up with the game.

You shake your head, your lip between your teeth.

"You know what, Brendan. You know I was there, don't you?"

There's a pause. I let it develop. First time in quite a while I've had you on the back foot. I'm almost ashamed to say I'm enjoying it. Like I said, old habits die hard.

"Was it Cheryl?" you ask me, pouting, your face annoyed, found out.

And I give it up to you. A feel a smile cross my face, satisfied that I've flushed you out. "Deccie told me," I say.

You roll your eyes. "He wasn't supposed to say," you say.

"Ah well," I tell you, "we're not all good at keeping secrets, are we?" And I look at you, an eyebrow raised, because you never could keep your mouth shut, could you? That was part of the problem. But not really the problem, I know that now. I was the problem.

You almost laugh, for a second, but then your brow furrows. You look puzzled.

"Your Declan couldn't have told you all that, though," you say.

No. Now you're getting it. Suddenly, your eyes open that bit wider. Your mouth opens.

"Did you … did you hear me talking? You were unconscious!"

I shrug. "I don't know, Steven. I heard some stuff." I turn to you now. "I can't know what was real or not," I say to you. "Can I?"

Your face looks horrified, your mouth open. Suddenly, you jump off your stool.

"Brendan! Why didn't yer say?!"

I turn to face you.

"What? C'mon Steven, I was in a fecking coma, it didn't really seem like a good time to bring it up!"

"No!" you say, getting more agitated, "after that!" The tips of your ears are bright pink, like a mouse or something.

"Wh – but I thought you didn't want me to know!" I can hear my voice rising.

Your hands come out now, gesturing. "B … but you've had weeks! We've been sitting here for flipping weeks! And all the time, you knew!"

And now Darren's over, looking nervous again. "Everything all right here, lads?"

Jesus, you could not make this up. Just when I think I've reached some kind of Zen nirvana, I'm in the middle of a domestic. And we're not even together.

I open my mouth, but you get there first.

"Yeah, I can handle this, thanks, Darren," you say, but you look fecking furious.

For a second, you look down, your eyelashes covering your eyes, your lip between your teeth, as if you're getting control back, as if it's something you've learned. Then you look up at me. And what you say surprises me.

"Wanna get out of here for a bit?" You gesture with your head towards the door. Your eyes are still blazing, your lips pressed together.

What does that mean? Let's take it outside? Are we going to fight this damn thing out? And out? What, out there? We've never done that. We've never gone anywhere else. This is the place that's safe. The place where we sit, and drink, and talk, and don't touch. My eyes go to the door. Something tells me that if we go out of here, the rules might change.

But Darren's still hovering. He probably thinks we might start brawling any second, and he's worried about his décor.

That's enough to give me a kick. I gesture the way with my hand, and you stalk out, with your head held suspiciously high.

This is going to be … interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

****_Thanks for all the brilliant comments. This was only ever going to be a short one, so here's the last part._

**Part 5**

You don't get any further than that jetty in front of the pub. You're staring out over the bit of poxy river in front. Not the best place to stop, if you think about our history. Things tend to come to the surface here, things you'd rather keep buried. But your hands are curled around the railings, your fingers tight. You don't seem too keen to start though, your jaw clenched. I take up a place alongside you, rest my arms on the railings. God, I have lived a long time. Too long for this. But apparently, you've got other ideas. Here we go.

"I don't believe this!" you say. "You've been taking me for a right ride, you." Angry with me again, then? Not much changes.

"I haven't," is all I say. Because that isn't what's been happening here. I can't believe that's all you take me for. Or I can, really. But if I'd been taking you for a ride, I can tell you now you'd have been on your back behind that counter before my stitches were out. "I'm trying …"

"Well, were you ever gonna say anything, then?" you ask me, interrupting. You look at me and your eyes flash like lightning. Jesus, you look pissed. I guess I should have expected that. Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted it. Provoked it. Anything to get us off those bar stools, stuck there like a couple of old geezers. For all I depended on it.

"I just did." Oh smart, Brady, smart. You look at me.

"You know what I mean, Brendan." Fierce. OK, a change of tack. I look you in the eye.

"Were you ever gonna say anything to me?" I ask you.

And yeah, I may not have done this for a while, but I'm pretty sure you're blushing now.

"No," you say, fighting through it, agitated. "That was … different, wannit, things … well, things changed."

"I'm not with you, Steven," I say.

"Well, you were … you were supposed to be … you know."

Well, that's tactful.

"Dying," I say, and look you in the eye, again.

"Yeah," you say, and you have the grace to look embarrassed.

"Sorry to disappoint you," I say. I can hear the sarcastic drawl back in my voice, the defence. And I wonder why this is always how it goes. Maybe saying something wasn't such a great idea. Maybe limbo was better than this, after all, fists flying. So to speak.

"No … I don't mean …" you start, looking awkward. Then look at me, take a breath, "I don't mean that."

And I don't know what it is, but when your eyes meet mine, I mean really meet them, properly, holding them, something happens. Every damn time. Something dissolves.

I take a risk. Lean in towards you, close the space between us.

"Did you mean it, then?" I ask you.

And you almost laugh. You're bright red now, but you shake your head.

"Don't even start, Brendan, or I swear …"

"Ok," I look across the water. And I have a desire to laugh as well. But I don't think that would be all that helpful.

There's a silence for a second. Like you're gathering your thoughts.

"But if you heard me, right, why didn't you say somethin'?" you say, and your voice is still stroppy, but quieter. You're like a thunderstorm, you crackle and yell, then it's over.

"I don't know, Steven, I woke up, you weren't there …"

And now it's like you've remembered something else. Suddenly, you stand up straight again. Your eyes are even wider than before, if that were physically possible.

"But you came to the deli and proper dumped me!" Oh fuck it, I thought the storms were over, and here we are again. I guess you'll never change. If anything, you seem more like you than ever. Your accent always gets stronger when you're pissy. I noticed that. I wonder if mine does.

"I didn't …" OK, I'm lost again here. How can I dump you when we've never really been together? I take a breath. And I hold it for a second, looking at you.

Suddenly, I realize you're not angry any more. You're listening. Really listening. With your whole body, tuned in. There is this weird feeling of sudden calm. And there's a whole lot at stake.

"I just came because … I wanted you … I wanted you to be free. I just wanted you to be able to walk away. Stop coming back, you know?" Your face is finally serious. I've seen that face, in so many ways. In my dreams. Smiling. Crying. Cut. Bruised. And I was responsible for almost all of it.

"I didn't …" you start, then fade away, a bit awkward. But then it's like you just decide to go for it. "I didn't come back."

I look at you. If you won't say it, then I'll have to. "Just came to say goodbye, eh?"

You nod, a bit awkward, but more sad than anything. "Something like that," you say. Then you sniff, like you always do when your pride comes back. "Just realized what was important, that's all."

I find myself wondering what happened. Between you and Doug. Who left who. What you told him when you came to the hospital. What he thought. What he saw. What he knew. I wonder if you told him the same as you told me, that it was all in the past, for old time's sake. I wonder at what point you realized that was a lie, not that you meant it to be one.

"Steven, I want you to know …" Jesus, there are just no words to say what's on my mind here.

"What?" you ask me, quiet, like maybe you're finally ready to hear it.

I look at you, and it's like you're hardly breathing.

"If I could change it all, then I would."

Not much, is it? But I can't turn the clock back. There's nothing I can do to undo this damage, I think we both know that. And I could waste a hundred breaths begging for your forgiveness, and it won't make any difference. You will always be angry with me, somewhere, deep down. And maybe somewhere, deep down, I'll know I deserve it.

Your lips look so full. Your mouth, turned down. "All of it?" you ask me.

I shake my head. There's plenty I wouldn't change, and you know it. "Not all of it, no," I say.

"But … I'm tired, Steven. I'm trying. Getting some help. But I'm tired of messing everything up, and trying to put it right. You should be, too. You're a young guy. You need to get on with your life."

I've never seen your eyes look that blue, that intense, or that serious.

But then your head turns away and you look out over that manky water again. For a minute, it seems like you're lost in thought, but eventually, you speak.

"Yeah, well," you say, but your voice is much softer than before, "I've been free to make up my own mind for a long time. You don't get to give me that, Brendan."

Another silence. I look down at you. That stubborn curve to your neck. I never actually thought about it like that. That freedom is something you take for yourself. No one can give it you. And look at you, that groove between your eyebrows. Your mouth, serious. Yeah, you can do this yourself, now ,can't ye? I take a deep breath.

"Better choose wisely, then," I say.

And you turn your head and look at me, and hold my gaze for a long time.

Then suddenly, it's like you just want to change the whole subject. You let go of the railings.

"You and me should go out for dinner or something," you say.

OK, what? Because I'll admit, of all the things I thought you might say, that isn't one of them.

"Dinner?"

"Yeah, you know, dinner. People do, don't they?"

"Why?" I frown. OK, that wasn't what Cheryl's ma would have called a polite answer. But I have no clue where your head's darted off right now. Is this like a date kind of thing? Or are you just torturing me for sport or something?

You sort of shrug. "Just … everything," you say. "You're better now, aren't yer?"

"They've let my place go in the morgue, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah, exactly," you say. "And this …" you sort of gesture from me to you and back, "we're friends now, aren't we?"

"Is that what we are?" I ask you.

"Yeah," you say. "Well, we're talking, aren't we? We should make it official."

"What?" OK, you've really lost me now. Are you saying …?

"You being better," you say. Your face looks … innocent. About as innocent as it ever looks, anyway. Which isn't much.

"Right," I say.

You pull this little smile, like a tease. "You owe me a meal, anyway," you say. "Y'know, for all those ones I never got. Nothing owed, you said, right?"

"I'm paying then, am I?"

You nod. "Buy me dinner and we'll call it quits."

I sigh and roll my eyes. You are one of the most fecking impossible people I have ever met. You never damn well do what I want, or expect. You never have.

I shake my head. "I'm not hungry, Steven." But then I catch your expression, and I don't know why, but I let you have your way. "But sure," I say, "if that's what you want."

You look at me, just a bit wary. "It is."

You say a place, and a time. "Come and pick me up in the car," you say. Which means I'll have to watch what I drink, but you're hard to say no to right now.

"That's sorted, then," you say, when I agree. And you nod, and start walking away. But as you do, you sort of spin round, and start walking backwards. "Wear the suit," you say. "And the blue shirt. I like the blue shirt."

Christ. Since when have you given me fashion tips? But before I can open my mouth to reply, you've just pulled a grin, and you're gone.

And I'm left wondering what just happened.

* * *

And that's how we end up here, facing each other over this table. You in your suit and tie, me in my shirt sleeves. Yeah, the blue shirt, the one you said you liked. For old time's sake. And I don't even know what we're doing here, either of us. Calling it quits, I guess. But I'll admit, when you got into the car, in that suit, your hair groomed, sharp, and your whole body smelling of something subtle and fuckable, I wanted to unwrap you, right then, on the back seat. I didn't. I drove us to the hotel where I'd booked us a table. And we were seated, like two respectable guys, not like two prime former fuck-ups, and we ordered. I ordered the steak, and I forgot where I was, and when. And you ordered the pasta, and I remembered. It was just us now, all cards on the table. No games, and no agendas. And I didn't need to think about how to get you upstairs, because there was no room, and no champagne on ice, and no fruit, and no big soft bed where I would make love to you until you loved me back again. I'll admit, I thought about it, the room. A leopard doesn't change its spots, right? Not all of them, anyway. And not straight away, for all the talking. But it didn't go down too well the last time, and I didn't think you'd really appreciate the same trick twice, to be honest. So there's no need to think about it. Instead, I pour the wine. You sip at yours, looking around you. Then back at me.

"You not gonna make me eat the steak, then?" you say. You fucking tease. Anyone would think you were playing with me a bit, here.

"I can't make you do anything you don't want to, Steven," I say, hearing the drawl in my voice. "You know that." And I look you in the eye, eyebrows raised. And yeah, you're smiling back at me, for all you're trying to keep it under control.

So I have to sit and watch you eat that carbonara, while you talk. You sort of rattle on about Chez and this Barnaby guy, and how the strangest people can turn out to be suited, though you look out from under your eyelashes as you do, like you've said something wrong.

"She seems happy," I say, to let you know it's OK. And you relax.

"He thinks you're a bit of a psycho," you say, slurping up your pasta, while a forkful of steak I don't really want get suspended on the way to my mouth.

"Does he?" I say. "Which bit?"

And your mouth twitches. "It's OK," you say. "I told him you're all right. When people get to know you."

"That's good of you, Steven," I say, but it's kind of distracting, because now there's pasta sauce on your chin. "But I've got a reputation to keep up."

You frown, then. "Like anyone cares about that …"

But I can't stop myself. "Steven … you've got …" Before I know what I'm doing, my hand lifts, as if I'm gonna lean forward and touch your face, wipe it away with my thumb. But you realize what's happening, and grab your napkin, and wipe it away. My hand drops back down. Yeah, not really my place. You can manage on your own, I get it. It just happened, before I could stop it.

"I care," I say.

For a second, there's a pause.

"About what?" you ask, losing your thread.

And you're blushing again, but I'm not sure if it's because you just had sauce splashed over your face.

"About my reputation," I say. "Can't have it getting out I'm a pussycat, can I?" I say. I savour the word in my mouth, consonants and vowels, let them roll and spit. At least I've still got that, words. Not much compensation, though.

"Oh," you say. "Yeah. Sure." And your hand reaches for your wine glass, and you take a sip, thoughtful.

When you've hoovered up your last mouthful, the plates get cleared. Yours, empty. Mine, maybe half. I don't know what's wrong with me. I never used to send food back.

"Dessert?" I ask you.

But you shake your head. No, you've never really had a sweet tooth, have you? I've seen you rip into the occasional doughnut, when they've been left lying around, like a scavenger. But you're more of a savoury guy, portion of chips, extra salt and vinegar. But you do like your fruit. I've seen you sink your teeth into an apple, a banana, walking along the street with the kids, when you've hardly had time to eat.

"Coffee?" I ask. "Brandy?"

But you shake your head again. If I didn't know better, I'd say you seem a bit distracted. Maybe this hasn't worked out how you wanted. But then I didn't know what you wanted.

"Do me a favour, will you?" you ask, getting up, putting your napkin scrunched on the table. "Just get the bill. I need to nip out."

I lean back in my chair, look up at you.

"You're not about to make a run for it through the gents' again, are ye?" I ask you. "Because I think we played that one to death."

And you half frown, half laugh. "No," you say. "Don't be daft. There's just something I've got to do. Follow me out in a sec." And you're gone, heading out into the lobby. And I'm left here with a half empty glass of wine, to catch the waiter's eye. Not that waiter, luckily. Food isn't the only thing I've lost my appetite for.

When I join you, you're just standing there. You still look a bit … nervous.

"Take ye home, then?" I ask.

And then you surprise me.

"No," you say, shaking your head. "Not yet."

My eyebrows go up.

"I've got something for yer," you say.

"Wha'?" I ask, because you've had this mystery behind your eyes all night.

You bite your lip for a second. "Come with me," you say, and turn away, and start walking towards the stairs.

"Wha'? Steven, seriously?" Because I thought I made it clear. I am way too tired for games, here.

You turn around. "Brendan, just … will yer just come with me? Please?"

Well, if it means that much to you. So I shrug, and I find myself following you up the stairs, one of those thick hotel carpets squashing under our feet, muffling the sound, as if we're going somewhere secret.

And then you reach a landing, and I follow you down a corridor, your shoulders formal in that jacket. Your arse, small and round in those trousers. The back of your hair, so neat and clipped and touchable, but I don't. And then you reach a door, and stop, and so do I. I look down as your hand fishes into your pocket. A key card. You glance up at me, just brief, and then open the door, and I follow you in. The door closes behind us.

A room. OK, not quite the full-on bridal suite I booked last time, but a good room. A good room, with a nice, big bed, and those sheets hotels use, crisp. On the side, there's a bottle of champagne on ice, and two glasses. And fruit, in a dish. Strawberries.

I don't think you get many prizes for guessing what this is. A love nest. Oh Jesus.

I look at you, standing there. You throw the key down on the side, to hide your nervousness, but I know your hands are shaking. You hide it well, though.

"What do you think?" you ask me.

Now there's a question. I look around me, and back at you.

"What are we doing here, Steven?" I ask you. And there are so many ways you could answer that question.

You step up, closer. I can smell you again. It's like … peach schnapps. Mixed with sweat. Better than it sounds. I watch your Adam's apple bob, nervous, above that collar and tie. You look up at me.

"I think I brought you here cos … I wanted to know if you'd really changed."

Okay. Interesting. I wonder what you're looking for. I look down at you, my head on one side. I've never seen quite that expression on your face before. It's kind of … determined.

"And have I?" I ask you.

You think about this.

"Yeah." Then you shake your head, smile. "No, not really. A bit. But you didn't book a room this time. That's a start." I can't work out if you're laughing or not. Or why any of this is funny. Because it's taking me every ounce of strength I have not to just throw you onto that bed and fuck you senseless, if that's what you want.

"You booked this?" I ask you, looking round. Appreciative, I guess. I'm not sure I ever got seduced before. No one ever dared try. I do the seducing. I did, anyway.

"Yeah," you say. "Classy, innit." I look at you, all smart in your suit, and wonder if you've changed, as well. Because underneath, you seem pretty much the same guy who stumbled into my club with some dodgy catering. You've just grown up. I wonder if I have.

"Can you even afford it, Steven?" I ask you.

You sort of sniff, raise an eyebrow, proud. "I'm doing all right. And I haven't had a holiday for ages. Not since … not since Disney. And you paid for that."

OK, that hurt.

"In more ways than one," I tell you.

Your face softens.

"Yeah, well. You should have come."

I smile. No point in going there. But I can still see you, standing at that bus stop with your kids. You were there, your life offered to me on a plate, touched by the sun, all bleached hair and bare warm golden flesh. And I buggered off to Blackpool because I was a coward. It was one of my biggest failures. I have had plenty. Specially where you're concerned.

"Yeah," I say. "Probably. It was a long time ago." Over a year. A long, empty, fucking heartbreaking year. "Things change."

"Some things don't," you say. And you're looking at me, serious, but your lips are slightly open. Suddenly, it's like you finally make up your mind about something.

"Ok," you say, "If I ask you a question, Brendan, will you give me a straight answer?"

"So to speak," I say. Damn, I'm not good at this heart to heart stuff. You roll your eyes.

"Brendan! For old time's sake."

"OK, then. Yeah. For old time's sake."

"OK." You look down at the carpet, then up at me. And it's like you take your life in your hands. "Do you feel the same about me?" You ask. "You know, as you did back then?"

No, I think. No, I don't feel the same. Back then, when it came down to it, you were less important to me than my idea of who I was, who I thought I had to be. Now, I know that who I was didn't amount to a hill of beans. You are much more than that now. Hard to put that into words that you'll understand though.

I look at you for what feels like decades. My throat feels tight.

"Yeah," I say, eventually. "You know I do."

Hard to describe the look that comes over your face, then. Like you want to smile but don't really dare. You step up really close now, bold. Look up into my face.

"Say it."

Oh god. I could have done with some preparation for this. But might as well be honest.

"I love you."

Funny, how hard it can be to say, when the reward is the expression on your face. Rapt. Loved. I love you.

"So stay then," you say. "Stay all night. With me."

I am finding it really hard to meet your eye now. I look away, and round the room, then back at you, your face close, turned up. A smile sort of flickers round your mouth.

"What's the matter?" you ask me. "Do I scare yer?"

Now there's a challenge, if ever I heard one. Fighting talk. I look down at you, now, my head on one side.

"Sometimes, yeah," I say. You laugh, soft, holding my gaze. I have never wanted more to reach out and stroke your face. But I don't trust my own hands. "Do I scare you?"

Now you look more serious. "Sometimes, yeah," you say. "But not usually."

I don't know which bit of that terrifies me more. I was trained to get off on other people's fear. But you were different. You just picked yourself up, and walked away. And I learned that wanting someone, and wanting them to fear you, weren't the same thing at all.

"Maybe you should be scared, Steven," I say to you. "How can you be sure? That I'll treat you … the way you should be treated?"

Yeah, that. The thing that will always be there. But you don't flinch, and you don't break gaze. You just think about it for a minute.

"You told me I'd have to learn to trust you, once," you say, "didn't yer?"

"Yeah, that didn't really work out all that well, did it, Steven?" Because if I remember right, I left you on your own right after.

You shake your head. "I don't mean that. I mean this time, you're going to have to trust me. That I know my own mind. Aren't yer?"

You're a strange one, Steven. I don't even know how, but you just have this way of making me feel like you belong to me.

"Am I?" I ask you.

And you nod, slowly, your bottom lip between your teeth.

"The thing is," you say, and your chin's up, now. I always know I'm in trouble when your chin's up. "You came and told me not to wait for you. Well, I'm not waiting any more. It's now or never. You either want me, or you don't."

God, I want you. That's not the problem. I want you so bad, I wonder if it's wrong to still want you this much. There is nothing I wouldn't do, to feel your body sliding all around me, your arms around my neck, or clawing at my back. But you want more than to be wanted. You want us to be together. I have tried to forget about you, but here you are, saying look, let's try again. And I want to turn you away, I do. But you just suck it all right out of me.

I close my eyes for a second, and re-open them. You're still there. I sigh.

"You never give up, do you?" I say.

And you're starting to smile, now.

"Us younger guys don't get tired easy," you say. "You should know that." And I swear you're pouting. And you're perfect. And you're beautiful. And you're maddening. And I don't want anyone else like I want you, and I don't think I ever will. But it's not enough, that it just feels right. I messed it all up before we even started.

"Steven, I'm …"

But now your hand is on my mouth, stopping me. I haven't felt the touch of those fingers for a long time. Not like that.

"Brendan, just … You're forgiven. All right? You're forgiven."

Christ.

Am I? Forgiven?

And there is a lump in my throat now, like a fucking conker. Because I have done a lot that needs forgiving. The places I should have been, and wasn't. The calls I should have made, and didn't. The things I should have said, on stairs and in halls. The lies I told instead. The things I never should have done, and did. I have taken lives in my hand, and destroyed them. Looking in the mirror, knowing I looked good, hating what I was, where it came from. Trying to sleep at night, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape it. And everything I tried to do to fix it ending in an empty bed, and a crumpled note, and a graveyard, and a chest full of bullet wounds. I have done terrible things, and I have paid, over and over. I thought I'd spend my life paying. And yet here you are, looking at me, as close to me as you've ever been. And I know I don't deserve it, but somehow … you make it seem like there was some kind of point.

And I guess that's what I needed. Because I stop fighting, now. My hand reaches up and touches the side of your face, cradling, my fingers burying in your soft short hair. My thumb strokes your cheek.

"I love you, don't I?" you say. "So I think we should just see what happens."

You make it sound so easy. And life's never easy.

But let's see what happens, shall we?

Here's what happens.

I lean in to you, still cradling, my fingers on the back of your neck now, and bury my mouth against the side of your face, your hair. And I just breathe you in. I feel the pressure there, the warmth of you. I want to keep my mouth there forever, feeling you melt. But I don't. I kiss along your cheekbone, to your ear. I take your earlobe between my teeth, soft and fleshy and downy, and pull it lightly, and feel you laugh. But I know you're loving it, anyway. I always know. I can feel your pulse quicken through my lips pressed against your skin. And I pull back, a tiny way. My mouth skims across your mouth on the way to your other cheek, where I bury myself again, my nose in your sideburn.

"Brendan …" I hear you say, like you're dying for me, and loving it. Like I'm dying for you, and loving it.

And I pull back, and look at your mouth. I trace round the outline of it, with my thumb, the depth of that cupid's bow, while your lips open. For me.

And then you put your hand over mine, and stop me. But you don't take it away, like you probably ought to. You give it a squeeze. I can feel how fast your breathing is coming and going, through those lips. You give me a last, long look. And then your lids lower, and you lean forward, slow. And you put your mouth against my mouth. And you kiss me.

I can feel your breath, your lips, the touch of your tongue.

And I taste you. And you taste like … you taste like you.

I had no idea how much I've missed you until now. I don't even want to understand how much, or why. You've just become my family, I guess.

Remember the time I took you home, and you kissed me first, and you were all mine? This time, I feel like it's me being claimed. Maybe it always was. Like you have put a hand right inside my chest and grabbed hold of my heart.

And I know what's going to happen here. We don't have to go anywhere, and we don't have to say anything, that's all outside. Everything else can wait.

We're going to take off each other's clothes, suit and tie and all, and lie down over there, on that crisp white bed, and I am going to kiss every inch of your skin, lick you, suck you, lift you, part you, fuck you, and love you, losing all that darkness in you that only you really understand, while you moan it all out, spread for me, legs wrapped round, a heel pressed between my buttocks, locking us together until you reach for yourself and touch and pull until you're shining with sweat, and your mouth opens and slackens and your belly slicks with seed, and your muscles will contract and squeeze me dry, taking every last thrust I have to give you. And afterwards, coming down off that rush, you'll lie there panting, breath coming in and out between your wet lips, and you'll look at me that way you did at the start. Like you love me. And this time I won't kick you out and send you home. I'll feed you fucking strawberries, while you laugh, and I'll wipe the juices on your chest with my fingers, sticky, and then lick you clean, until we're ready for second helpings, and start the whole fucking thing again, insatiable. We won't get much sleep tonight. But in the morning … there'll be breakfast.

My body makes contact with yours, and your arms reach round to pull me closer. I feel you swell and harden and yield.

And suddenly, I remember what it feels like to be hungry. My stomach roars. And I am not just hungry for you.

I am ravenous.


End file.
